


dream thief.

by rosewilts



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Other, klaus hargreeves/reader - Freeform, klausxreader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 16:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18237092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewilts/pseuds/rosewilts
Summary: i look at you klaus, and it is as if my throat is being cut.





	dream thief.

**Author's Note:**

> this is just an idea/ short synopsis of a bigger plot and idk if i should continue it, so lmk what u think!

_**Four years before the end.** _

He knows this won't last.

Still, he loves them, doesn't he? Them and their dark, chipped black nails tangles in the flesh of his scalp, hand pressing the purple and blue bruises from a moment of weakness, from their tight, passionate hands and sloppy, needy kisses he'd begged so badly from them the last night. Long fingers tracing intricately down the cartilage of his spine, _softly_ , almost lovingly, almost as if they'd promised to spend forever with him and intended to keep it. Intended to remember the rare memory of him that night in the soft of the midwinter moonlight: his sober smiles and his soft, plump lips, his careful _i love you's_ whispered in the nape of their fleeting neck at 3am, a sight he'd only reserve for them and them only, whenever they'd allow it. Attempting sobriety and ignoring the terrors and the _fucking_ woes of the dead just for them, _just for them and their tender touch,_  just to feel the realness of their body and not the illusion of it, the flush of their _oh so real_ flesh against his and the drug of their tongue mangling on his and making him feel so _alive_ for the first time he could ever remember, every time he felt them.

They, finding and greeting him after absences of months on end, sober or not. Always coming to him with the intention of leaving but never _with_ him. Them and their cold, chapped, bloody lips against his neck, his jaw, his chin, hungry and demanding for him, his pulse, his love, his everything, everything he knows he'd be willing to give up for just for  _them,_ if they'd only remember him by the time the moon slumbers to the glory of the sun, but the time their high from the night surrenders themself to a bitter, sober end, leaving him raw and naked and _alone,_ in, once again, he tells himself, just another bed they once shared but never will again. Their tongue, terribly drunk and high and misguided, snaking and seeking as they paint patterns against the ripe of his flesh as he presses into their touch against the thrum of his pulse, the vibrations of his long awaited moans lost in the breeze, a love they'd share with him but won't remember when the sun dances, no matter how hard Klaus wishes he could kill a god to make them remember the love they've shared countless nights before.  And yet, in these empty alleyways with them, again and again and again, reality shifts and turns and blurs. Their mouth is his confessional, and Klaus sins, he sins, he sins, like they're the only drug he can't quit, and, with every intoxicating twist and taste of their tongue, with each of their broken promises and the lust in their eyes, he lets them drag him further and further down the rabbit's hole, to their Wonderland.

until one day he wakes up, and they never come back.


End file.
